If I Don't Make It Back
by Noxid Anamchara
Summary: The letters were more than just words. They were life. They were hope. It was a chance to feel something other than emptiness. It was all they had. It was what they held onto. And even as the war continued to bear down on them, they never stopped hoping. Hoping that one day, they would have more than just words. But hope was a fantasy and war leaves nothing behind. [Soldier AU]
1. Dear Jane

**Noxi**: Yes, it's another AU. I never thought I'd give the Soldier storyline any thought, but I've said that about plenty of things. So here I am. I saw a prompt and decided to go with it, twisting it to fit my needs, both Caryl and Muse. It will either be a huge endeavor, much like Sky Country, or it will be sweet and brief. I'm not sure yet. I'll see where Carol and Daryl take me. I hope you will join me.

**To be clear**: I have no personal knowledge of the Wars - WWII and Vietnam - but they will both be used here. All my knowledge is the tiny bit I have retained from high school, and countless searches of the web and even media. If you see something that is wrong, please don't hesitate to tell me. I will gladly look it over and see what I missed.

**!Warning!**: Racial Slurs, Racism, Bigotry, Violence, Attempted Suicide, Graphic Scenes of Torture and Violence, Death, Language and Sexual Connotations.

* * *

Dear Jane

1974 - _Saigon, Vietnam_

He huddled against the tent as the rain poured over his head, the glare of the rollie burning bright red, red as the crimson that was splashed at his feet. You got used to red - red and green. Some day's you didn't know what was what and everything blurred together. One day to the next, one gook to the other, one dead brother after another. It was all either perfectly clear or hazy as fuck. He didn't know which he preferred; watching his brothers die around him, with perfect clarity, knowing that with just the slightest shift in fate, destiny, _whatever they called it_, he could be right there, lying on the ground, next to the brother he'd just taken a shit with four hours before. Or he was watching it all through the smoke that lingered like a bad hangover, burning his eyes, the smell of charred flesh searing his senses and the screams echoing in his head.

He figured it'd be easiest to just fuckin' _die_. Nothing fancy, nothing dramatic - just him, staring up at the sky, _lifeless_.

But it didn't matter what he thought. Because each day he woke up after the few sparse hours of sleep he got, he still picked up that rifle and he still kept moving his feet. There wasn't a thing that kept him alive, _except _maybe -

No. It was bad juju counting on a fantasy. He could hold that dream close as he wanted but it was nothing but that - _a dream_. And a bad one at that. He'd never had nothing before and the fuckin' war sure wasn't gonna change that. No matter how many letters he wrote, no matter how many he kept tucked in the pocket of his bag. It wouldn't keep him warm at night, and it wouldn't stop a bullet from blowing his brains to bits. All he had was this. His own side arm, the brother still breathing at his back, and the empty promise of _liberty_.

The smoke curled in his lungs gratefully, burning better than the smell of charred flesh that head been lingering in his nose all damn day. He'd watched sixteen men either be riddled with bullets, burned or beaten to death. _Sixteen_ of his brothers. He was pretty sure he saw one get pulled away into the blurry green of the wet jungle that surrounded him, screaming the entire way. He could still hear him now. _Harkin, J. _Number one hundred and eighty nine. Screaming bloody murder for something that wouldn't ever come. Earlier, Jimmy had been laughing about tying the knot with his girl, Barbara. And as the ash from the fires fell down on him like snow, all he could see was that stupid fuckin' rice they threw at wedding's, and all he could hear was Jimmy's laugh as his eyes shined each time he said _Barbara_.

But there would be no rice and there would be no ring, and there was _nothing_. Nothing but fire and ash and death, and the distant cry of Barbara mourning.

**James** was the the hundred and eighty-ninth brother he watched die. James was the echo in his head, reminding him of how short and _fleeting _life was. _Jimmy_ was the constant reminder of all the things he had never had.

And had ever given up.

Jimmy wasn't the first, and he wouldn't be the last. Jimmy was just one of many. And that's what he kept telling himself, to get passed the screaming and the smell, and the _hopelessness_ that ate him in the weak hours of the morning when he lingered between sleep and death.

Nothing, no one, would ever replace Jimmy. But he was a memory that couldn't be dwelled on. He was gone, and that was it. Another day, another loss, more emptiness.

The smoke burned bright in the darkness, reminding him that he was still _breathing_, and that it was the ash he **wanted** in his lungs.

"Letter, Private." He turned to the empty voice behind him, surprised to hear the news, and yet not because he _knew_. He knew that no matter what he had said, **she **would send one back. He had learned that it was just who she was. Determined in her silence, strong in her weakness, and fierce in her acceptance. It had started as nothing but random chance, and had turned into _hope_.

He took the envelope in his hands, nodding to the faceless officer as the smooth exterior of the white parchment was a welcome touch. It was _always _welcome. Compared to the feeling of dirt beneath his hands, and the blood that stained his fingernails, and the callouses he'd gained from the rifle he carried; the welcome sight of the near pristine letter was like God, shining the goddamn holy light on him.

This would probably be the last one he received. And that opened a hole so wide in his chest, he wasn't sure he could breathe.

He dropped the cig, the red glare rolling and fading away from him as he held the letter like gold in his hands. Opening it meant accepting what he had given up. Opening it meant the he was _letting go_. Opening it meant ripping open the wound that he had never really closed.

But he _had _to know.

His finger slipped beneath the crease and pulled the envelope apart, until he was tearing it open in his haste. A sheet of paper fluttered to the ground, and he scrambled to retrieve it, the rain already ruining it. But it didn't matter because it wasn't important.

He stared down at his own handwriting, as it faded to black streaks in the pouring rain. It was the last letter he had sent her. The one where he had told her this was. It was over, done, _finished_. Whatever it was between them, he was ending it. Because he wasn't going to be responsible. His eyes shifted to the paper left in his hands. He pulled the remaining note from what was left of the envelope, dropping that to the ground as well. He held the small note in his hands, carefully, _preciously_.

His lips parted in stunned silence as he read over the lines, over and over.

_Dear Daryl_,

You can have this goddamn thing back. I don't want it, and I _don't _accept it.

When you get back, you can tell me you're sorry.

_**Love**,_

Carol

He stared, stunned at the neat scrawl that barely filled the page, _consuming _him. She had basically given him the finger. She might as well have put _"fuck you" _in big, black letters. But all he could see was "_I will wait for you_." He laughed, short and desperate, _painfully_. He ran his fingers over the sheet of paper, memorizing each word, burning them into his brain, wishing he could hear her instead. He was a jackass, and she _still_ didn't care. His fingers trembled with the thought, finger moving continuously over one word until his finger was stained with the ink and he could barely read the single word that stood like a beacon above her name.

Until he felt the flaw. He stared down at the paper, determined to figure out what had warped the material so, and clamped his mouth shut at the realization.

_Water_. Water had damaged the paper, even smearing some of the letters. And it wasn't the rain that beat down above him, soaking him to the bone and sending a shiver up his spine. It was from _tears_.

She had been crying when she had wrote this.

He curled around the letter, his own eyes burning and a choked sound rushing passed his lips. She had shed _tears _for him. No one had ever done that before. Not his brothers. Not even his own Ma.

This woman, who he had never met, had never heard, have never _touched - _she had cried for _him._

He slid to the ground, eyes blinking away the mist of rain that hit his face, pressing the note to his lips as he breathed in again, and _again and again_ and only one word beat against him - _Carol_.

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**A/N**: A _Dear Jane _is similar to a _Dear John_, only to a female counterpart or lover. Clearly, this will lead to other places, and I've started at the end, instead of a beginning. But I do have something that I hope will make you all cry as I have already done. Thank you so much for reading! Reviews, and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. As always, I hope you enjoyed!


	2. One Hundred and Twenty

**Noxi**: Thank you so much for all of your love and support on this piece! This is for my favorite lady, that I love dearly, who never fails to make me feel like I'm the bees knees. _You know who you are._

**Previous Warnings and Disclaimers Still Apply**

* * *

One Hundred and Twenty

1967 -_ Macon, Georgia_

She was cleaning the dishes when the radio flicked over, and the voice of _Eddie Hog_ came on, announcing the arrival of more troops to assist in "reclaiming Nam". She scoffed in the direction of the radio, _'bozo' _slipping passed her lips in a sharp murmur as she dipped her hands into the sink full of water and soap, fishing for a plate. She pulled it out quick, splashing soap suds across her apron, and started vigorously scrubbing the plate.

It was a load of bullhockey. They'd been in Vietnam for near on ten years now, two of which had their soldiers on the ground, and they had _nothing_to show for it. Nothing but dead soldiers, widows, and abandoned children. She hated it. Hated that it left their country emotionally broken. But what she hated most was that not even her own husband had had the courage to join ( or the luck to be drafted ).

No. She was the _lucky_ one whose husband was still here in the US. She was lucky because she didn't have to fear his death. She was _lucky_ because he would still _live_. She wanted to laugh in God's face for such a cruel twist of fate. She wouldn't deny that she wanted her husband dead. Not after the years of bruises and scars that had left her broken and ugly, until she was a husk of hatred - - - and unable to do _anything _about it. She was stuck. Stuck in this place, with the same, despicable man she hadn't seen coming, and a war that would continue to take away everything.

She sighed, hands slowing as her fingers released the plate back into the water. She watched it slip slowly underneath until there was nothing left. She felt like that plate, slowly drowning with no way out. Plain, dirty, chipped. Used until there was nothing left, cleaned up and then used again.

A hoarse laugh erupted between her lips, stunting the sudden tears that tried to burn a trail across her cheek. She leaned forward, placing her weight in her palms as she gripped the sink and stared out the window, the guilt consuming her.

She hated her life, and yet, it was all she had. She took care of her husband, _loved _her daughter fiercely, and played the doting housewife. But it still felt like she was missing something inside. This was the life she had been dealt, and it was the one she had to live. There was nothing she could change about that.

– _ But_.

It wasn't _all _she could do.

For nearly a year she had sent out letters. Letters upon letters _upon letters_. Addressed to no one, but sent to _anyone_. She had to do something. Needed to set her mind to something other than the daily monotony of her life. So she wrote letters. Short, quick notes of encouragement and positivity. Long, embarrassing letters where she talked about a life she'd never had, but had fantasized about for years. Letters where she wrote a quote, her favorite of the day, and described, in the fullest detail she could provide, the way sun had risen across the horizon, and the laughter of the woman in her impossibly high heels as she strut down the street. She'd talk of the way the rain would pelt against her roof, or the sound of glass shattering from the next door neighbor's house. And she'd finish it with "_an insight into my day, in the hopes that you might forget about yours, if only for a brief moment._" And she'd sign it _"you are not forgotten._"

She wouldn't know for sure if this was appropriate or not. Was it too naïve? Did she provide false hope and a childish outlook? Was the receiver of the letter laughing at her as he was entrenched in a battle that was his last? Or was it too poetic, too beautiful for a world that was stained red, the ground littered in flesh? Would anyone even _care_?

She had no way of knowing for not one letter was returned. She was beginning to lose hope - - - in herself.

She'd sat by for two years, watched the war play out over broadcasts, and listened to the radio talk about brave men dying for liberty. She laughed. Liberty? Liberty for who? Whose land were they fighting on, whose people were they dying for? Those '_brave men_' were dying for a cause that didn't really mean anything to them. Two years of pain, suffering, _death_, and it was beginning to look as if it would never end.

And she had decided to do _something._ She wasn't going to stand by and be vigilant. She wasn't going to listen to her countrymen die without honor. She didn't want to watch them come home in **boxes**. She was tired of watching mothers, wives, sisters, **children** suffer. Fathers, brothers, lovers - - - never returned home. Never held their loved ones again.

She was _tired._

And if they did return, it was in a box or to a life they could no longer live, with darkness etched in the crease beneath their eyes and a shadow that haunted them at every turn. They were never the same. Gone were the youthful smiles and harrowing tales of how they would have victory. Gone was the vigor, the life they had all held so precious once upon a time. Now they came back as husks, shattered on the inside. Still wounded even after they had been healed. The physical scars were nothing compared to the ones on the inside. All open, festering wounds, poisoning the blood. They were slowly dying, and no one cared to see it happen.

It was foolish, all so damn foolish. And they couldn't be fixed. She often wondered which was better - - - to come back broken beyond repair, or to not come back at all. She realized she didn't want to know the answer. Either one was too sad.

She jerked, her thoughts halted as she heard the sound of a screen door snap shut. She watched as the sun peeked over the horizon, a red-orange burst of light blinding her briefly. She blinked away the black spots across her eyes, and breathed. She reached over and switched off Eddie, and listened to the gratifying silence encompass her. Here, in her quiet little hometown of Macon, it was peaceful. The stillness in the air was most palpable in summer, when the heat threatened to fry them. When winters struck and the simple chill in the air let the few flakes of snow drift silently down, melting before they touched earth.

There was air in her lungs, and water beneath her hands and _life _in her veins. And none of it mattered because people were dying thousands upon thousands of miles away. She had thought she couldn't feel anymore worthless.

All she could do was return to her dishes and despise how mundane her life was. A woman, destined to spend her life at the beck and call of a husband, slaving away in a kitchen. She'd always cherish the gift of her daughter, but it did nothing to assuage the growing anxiety that she was just another number among studies. Another voice shouting into the crowd. Adrift at sea with no land in sight.

Insignificant.

_Forgettable._

" Hey mama, " Sophia called. She pulled the clean dish from the sink, setting her despairing thoughts to the side, and drying her hands on the towel hanging from her waist. She turned toward the living room, smile gracing her features as her daughter skipped into the kitchen.

" You got a letter. " She held out the wrinkled envelope like it was foreign. There was a moment of confusion as she contemplated just who would write to her. She knew very few people who wrote letters anymore. The "telephone" had become increasingly popular of late, and regardless of how often she nagged Ed, he wouldn't buy her one. Claimed she didn't need that _commercial bullshit._

" Who's it from baby? " Sophia looked over the envelope, brows knocking as she read the scrawl, her lips moving as she read the words to herself. She finally gave up and held the letter out once more, shoulders shrugging in indifference.

" Says P-t-e Dixon. I think Pete spelled his name wrong. " She merely stared at Sophia as realization dawned on her.

Two years, and one hundred and twenty letters later someone had _finally_ written back.

She took the letter from Sophia, her daughter's puzzled look stopping her from clutching the letter to her chest and giggling with joy. She pursed her lips, tucking in the smile that threatened to split her face and shook her head.

" No sweetheart. Pte. means private. Like a soldier. " Sophia still had that look on her face, the one she donned when Carol started ranting about the delicate nature of her neighbor's and how easily they succumbed to frivolous gossip. Always willing and able to bring a friend down a peg or two all in the name of popularity. She thought she'd left that crap behind in high school, but they always managed to prove her wrong.

The look of disinterest as these details were irrelevant to Sophia.

" Someone must have written the wrong address. I'll just take it back to the post office tomorrow. "

Sophia shrugged again. " Well, it says your name _and _your address. "

She'd curse her daughters reasoning skills, except she always beamed with pride knowing how intelligent she was.

" I don't know sweetheart. I certainly didn't ask for a letter, so I'll just send it back. " _Lie_. But one she felt was necessary. Her husband would never condone her exchanging words with a man she didn't know or ever met for that matter.

" No need to bother your father. " She winked like this was going to be their little secret. And she was grateful that her daughter knew enough to keep it that way as Ed was no better toward Sophia than he was with her.

" You bet! " Sophia left the way she had come; skipping from the kitchen as if nothing had changed. But something was shifting in Carol, a feeling that rose so high she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to bring it down.

She stared down at the hurried scrawl across the parchment, stained and wrinkled from its travel. Skimmed her fingers over the black ink, smudged from God-knows-what. She sat down at the table, unable to tear her eyes away from the envelope, holding her breath.

This was what she had been waiting for. This letter. Words written to paper. A voice from the other side of the world.

Hope.

The smallest tendril of hope that as she reached across the void someone was there, waiting to take her hand.

* * *

**Notes**: So I did my best in keeping to an accurate timeline of when the US was in Vietnam, though I try to avoid being too fact-oriented. This is fanfic after all! There was involvement by the government, as far as I can interpret, from 54 to 64 or 65 when troops were finally sent it. Thus, the two year period of Carol sending letters.

Thank you for reading!


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